


Aeonian

by vintagelilacs



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-24 13:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14356101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: Thorin does not dare utter the word “love,” not even within the sanctity of his own mind. But if it were love, it would be an aeonian love; the kind that endures well beyond the realm of the living, so strong its reverberations carry from one life into the next.





	Aeonian

Thorin’s heart is a mass of scar tissue, mangled and torn so many times it is almost insensate. He keeps it buried beneath layers of impenetrable armour: breast-plates of mail and forged steel, and invisible barriers of his own making. He promises himself he will encase all the soft parts of himself in stone until his homeland has been reclaimed. He does not have room for love, or affection, or joy. None of those things will aid him on his quest, nor will they ease the lingering betrayal that burns the back of his throat. He is not a soft creature. He is as immovable and unfeeling as the mountain he longs to return to. He is the very stone that forms its sacred halls.

But stone, for all that it is mighty and durable, is also liable to break. 

Thorin cannot pinpoint when, exactly, his carefully wrought defenses began to weaken. Maybe the first fault line appeared when he announced to their company that the halfling had abandoned them, only to be proven wrong mere seconds later. Maybe it was when their burglar had smiled up at him with a tenderness in his gaze and declared he was going to do everything in his power to help them return home. Or perhaps it was the first moment he entered the quaint-sized hobbit hole, and was reminded of all the simple comforts life had to offer. 

All he knows is that once the walls he erected around himself begin to fracture, he could not halt their destruction. Cracks and fissures spread like a cancer, and he is not even sure if he minds. 

He watches as small, gentle fingers card through ferns and greenery at Beorn’s garden. He watches them cradle acorns, and sprinkle seeds into the earth, and coax life from the soil. He feels a stirring in his chest as those delicate hands turn the pages of well-loved, dog-eared books. He cannot imagine being treated with such reverent hands, but he doesn’t have to. 

When those same sweet hands grab his, soft where his are rough, he thinks, _‘these are hands I could trust with my heart.’_

The sun slips from the horizon and rises again, a loop it cannot escape. Thorin stares at Bilbo and averts his eyes, knowing that they will continue to be drawn in the burglar’s direction. It is an inescapable pull he feels, and he is as helpless as the very sun. 

Their hands brush. Gentle, fleeting. Confident, firm. Tracing freckles and scars and blemishes. Sneaking beneath clothes and tugging on strands of hair.

Thorin is not in love. His heart is too well-guarded for that. But if he allows a bit of warmth to filter through the walls around him, then no one has to know. 

When night falls, Thorin's inhibitions do too. He feels a body shuffle next to his. He inhales the musk of smoke and day’s old sweat. When familiar hands venture across his skin, he does not rebuff them, even if they journey uncomfortably close to his chest, and the frail heart beneath. 

Thorin has only ever known passion as a rough, frenzied act fueled by blood-lust. He realizes it can be soft too. It can be full of sweet caresses and lingering embraces, of stolen glances and shared laughter. 

This is not a release of tension, or a distraction. It is not a simple joining of flesh, but the intertwining of souls. He drinks in all of Bilbo’s soft angles and prays to Mahal that he will still be just as gentle and unmarred by the end of their journey. Thorin may be damaged, but he will do everything in his power to ensure that fate handles their burglar’s heart with more care. 

Their hands entwine, fingers lacing tightly together. He is not sure who reached for whom. He does not care. Together they touch and explore. They wring pleasure from each other, a building crescendo that drives the breath from their lungs.

Thorin does not dare utter the word “love,” not even within the sanctity of his own mind. But if it were love, it would be an aeonian love; the kind that endures well beyond the realm of the living, so strong its reverberations carry from one life into the next.

He strokes his own broad palms across the flesh that has been offered to him. He hugs the small, compact body against his own. He presses his nose to the top of honeyed curls and inhales. “I gave you a piece of my heart I didn't even know I had.” 

The pair of arms around him squeeze tighter. “And I gave you mine.”


End file.
